


Would He Be Proud?

by AmyBot3000



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Clarke goes cray cray, F/F, Post Season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 07:55:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4427465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmyBot3000/pseuds/AmyBot3000
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke can only ask herself if he would be proud of her now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Would He Be Proud?

**Author's Note:**

> I've been reading A LOT of Philip K Dick and it's accidentally leaked into my writing...
> 
> Also the quote half way through is from his book Valis.

The more Clarke thinks about it, the more she realises the phrase 'I don't feel like myself' is a contradiction. How can you not feel like yourself, when you are yourself, so the mere act of not feeling like yourself is just an acknowledgement by yourself that the self you are is different from the self you were, and you just don't _like_ yourself any more. She smiles, and what is yourself if not you? It's not you, it's someone else, and that's something you can never be. What the saying should be is 'I don't feel like the self I used to be, and I don't like the self I am now', which in her case is now a monster. She nods to herself as she mulls the thoughts over, her head lightly tapping against the bark of the tree behind her and she's suddenly aware that her whole body is rocking with the motion.

 _Would her dad be proud of her now?_ The answer is no.

Clarke pushes her back against the bark, her spine rigid and straight as she searches the trees for anyone who might have been watching. There's a fire in front of her. Did she make it herself or did she kill the person it belongs to and take it for herself? The second option sounds a lot more like the self she is now.

Blood, fire and death. The three things she excels at. It's a stark opposite that on the Ark she was training to stop people bleeding, to heal them from fire and stop them from dying. Now on the ground all she does is make herself bleed, burn hundred of people with fire and kill everyone and everything that stands in her way. A monster. A monster with a questionable grip on reality too, and she laughs, if the rough broken noise that tears from her throat can be described as such.

"Clarke, it's not safe for you out here." Lexa's sat on the other side of the fire, she thinks it could be a sign that every time she sees her she's in her full commander gear, warpaint seeping from the skin around her eyes. It's wise to wear it Clarke thinks, because the next time she sees Lexa (and she's not foolish enough to think that she won't _really_ turn up one day) she'll need everything in her Grounder arsenal to protect herself from Clarke's rage.

Is it even rage she's feeling? Is it even Lexa she's raging at? Or is it herself? Thoughts, questions, and the only person around to give any answers is a mad woman who can't tell what's real and what's a dream any more.

"Go to hell." Oh. A thought hits her. "Wait. Is that where I am?"

"The ground is what you make of it." She blinks and Lexa is gone. Not the real Lexa then.

Lexa was right about a lot of things, she knows that, she accepts that, but there was one thing she was entirely wrong on. Yes, the living are hungry. But no the dead are not gone, they are still here, and they're still hungrily eating away at her sanity.

Sanity. Something she can recognise as slipping away from her, but only during the more lucid moments, in fact one of her favourite authors from the books on the Ark once wrote that:

" _It has been said of dreams that they are a 'controlled psychosis,' or, put another way, a psychosis is a dream breaking through during waking hours_."

See. Her dreams were leaking into reality. Hence her conclusion that sanity wasn't something she could claim to have in abundance right now.

Sometimes when Clarke sees the dead, she runs and runs and runs until her feet bleed and give out beneath her, leaving her to pass out on the wet leaves of the forest floor. When her eyes open she's always back in front of the fire she had run from, which is about the time she realises her dreams are becoming so vivid it's hard to tell when she's in one and when she's actually awake. But then. Maybe this has all been a dream and really she's on the Ark in her lonely cell. Maybe the oxygen is running out, yeah, maybe she's dying.

She knows the feeling of dying now. See. At first, on that lonely silent trek away from Camp Jaha, all she could concentrate on was the heavy gun in her hand and- Where was it? Oh. She can feel the barrel against her temple again, shaking in her hand. It was one of those days. She has them a lot now.

 _Would her dad be proud of her if she did this?_ The answer is no.

At first, on that lonely silent trek away from Camp Jaha, all she could concentrate on was the heavy gun in her hand and all she could think about was finding somewhere quiet to put a bullet in her brain. The ground had taken everything from her, so why shouldn't it take her dead body too. But then what was the point? Despite it all, she still wanted to live, she just wanted to be left alone so she could do that. She just needed a little time to sort her head out. Except. She didn't want to _think_ about everything she had done, she didn't want to feel it, so sorting her head out wasn't going as well as she had planned.

Maybe this was the price Atlas paid when he took the world on his shoulders. Was she this worlds Atlas? Holding the weight of Camp Jaha on her back so everyone could carry on without their guilt? But no. Atlas had no choice and she chose this for herself as their corrupt leader.

That was another train of thought she hadn't followed for a few days, hours or maybe just minutes. How much time passed when you were just thinking? Did it pass quickly? See. There was one fact no leader could escape. No matter how loved they were, or how hated. They would eventually be referred to in the past tense. As the predecessor to another leader. As the leader before. As the leader that once _was_. In her case the leader that was responsible for the death of hundreds.

Would her people accept her back if she walked back into Camp Jaha? Would they line her path thanking her, hailing her return like they must have for Lexa?

They were both leaders. Except. One knew how to lead and the other just careered their way through their short leadership leaving a trail of blood and fire behind them. That was Clarke.

"Clarke!" This is new. Lexa has no warpaint, no red sash, is it a sign that her fight was over? _Yu gonplei ste odon?_

The gun in her hand wavers, maybe she should turn it on Lexa, she's done it before. Shot at the delusions when it's too much, shot at the dead people who stalk her ever step silently judging her. No. She pulls the trigger against her own head.

 _Would her dad have been proud of her then?_ The answer is no.

It clicks, and she hears the hollow sound of the empty chamber and Lexa is on her in seconds, ripping the gun from her hand and pulling Clarke's body into hers to just _hold_ her. Should she fight it? Scream at her to let go? Or just breathe in the first comfort she's felt in weeks? Oh. It hits her then that _this_ is new to. None of them have been able to touch her before, and maybe this is what it's like to be completely broken, to become completely disconnected.

Was this how Finn felt?

Her eyes fly open and she's laying on the ground, the fire in front of her dying away and the cold night pressing in on her. The cool heavy metal of her gun is still in her outstretched hand.

Another dream. Is this still a dream? Clarke reaches her empty hand in front of her, placing it directly into the dying embers, and it _burns_. Definitely awake then. She pulls it out and grimaces at the red peeling skin.

Beyond the fire she can see them all staring at her. Some of them are just blackened skeletons, the remains of the grounders at the dropship, some are blistered mutilated messes and the only way she can tell the difference between the mountain men she irradiated and the villagers she let burn are their clothes. They offer an odd comfort. See. She can never truly be alone when she carries so many ghosts with her.

 _Would her dad-_ The answer is no.

**Author's Note:**

> I just want to see cray cray hallucinating Clarke ok?


End file.
